


Set, Match, Run

by p1013



Series: Kinkuary 2021 [18]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy Smokes, First Time, Frottage, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Pub Owner Harry Potter, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29572674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: When Harry bought it,The Hippogriffwas to pubs what a collapsed building was to architecture: a bloody mess.The floors were uneven. The plaster was water damaged. The ceiling beams bowed in an enormously unsettling way. If he dropped a marble in the upstairs flat, it would roll in sickening circles before settling, every time, in the middle of the floor. Windows leaked, doors hung uneven on their hinges, and the basement wasn't even worth mentioning.It was a perfect dump, and he loved it with his entire soul.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinkuary 2021 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2140512
Comments: 36
Kudos: 192
Collections: HP Kinkuary 2021





	Set, Match, Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zigster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigster/gifts).



> Day 19 - Smoking

Harry had rarely thought of Godric's Hollow as a nice place. There was nothing bad about the town. It was quaint, in a picturesque, postcard sort of way. The people who lived there were lovely, even the old man at the end of the high street who liked to talk about Muggle politics to anyone who'll listen. Even the memorial didn't bother Harry that much, not anymore, though he hadn't yet grown used to seeing his father's face when he walked past it on his way to work and home again.

But the _concept_ of the place, the _idea_ of it, had always upset him. To him, Godric's Hollow was a life stolen. He should have grown up knowing these streets and these people as well as the back of his hand. With every broken cobblestone he walked around, he resented not knowing what shattered it in the first place. There were a million tiny stories that he should have learned growing up here. But Wormtail had broken his promise, and Voldemort had broken Harry's family, and now, years later, Harry resented the concept of the place as much as he loved the reality of it.

It was partly why he moved here after the war. Twelve Grimmauld Place was too full of mourning for Harry, and Auror Training felt too much like the past eighteen years of his life for either to feel comfortable. He saw a yawning, black chasm of reliving the worst parts of his life before him, and Harry packed his bags, sold the house, and moved to where he should've been in the first place.

With no job and a new house that didn't even bother to creak a _little_ , Harry quickly found himself bored. Hermione and Ron would drop in for visits, but Ron was still with the Aurors, and Hermione was getting ready for Hogwarts, and neither of them really knew how to talk to Harry in the town where his parents died. It hung around the room with them, like a cobweb no one could see but could feel brushing against their face whenever they walked past. It didn't matter how many times they batted it away, it always came back, settling spider-silk thin across their cheeks, a niggling nothingness that refused to go away.

"It's just a bit odd, isn't it?" Ron finally said one night as he stepped into the Floo. "Being here, after everything. I mean, I understand wanting to be close to your family, but… I don't know, Harry."

Harry clapped Ron on the shoulder and told him not to worry about it. That night, though, as Harry lay in his new bed with his new sheets and his silent walls, he wondered if Ron would ever understand.

Or if Harry would.

* * *

It took him a month to realize that what he really needed was a job. Something to keep his hands and mind busy. Fame, of course, made it difficult to do. Oh, he didn't have any problems being offered work. There were endorsement deals arriving daily, flocks of owls settling in his garden in some great, migratory pattern that ornithologists would have loved to study. The Cannons even offered Harry the starting Seeker position on their team (he did _not_ tell Ron about that one; God knew how he'd take Harry turning it down).

He didn't want someone to hand him something, though, and honestly, Harry didn't really _need_ the money. He just needed to not feel idle. Like he was at the top of the stairs, foot raised to take the next step down but not quite yet giving into gravity.

When he saw the advert in the _Hollow's Herald_ the next morning, it felt like finally setting his foot on the next tread.

* * *

When he bought it, _The Hippogriff_ was to pubs what a collapsed building was to architecture: a bloody mess.

The floors were uneven. The plaster was water damaged. The ceiling beams bowed in an enormously unsettling way. If he dropped a marble in the upstairs flat, it would roll in sickening circles before settling, every time, in the middle of the floor. Windows leaked, doors hung uneven on their hinges, and the basement wasn't even worth mentioning.

But the bar.

It glowed from years of hands on its rail. Names were carved into the top, some worn down by age, others clearly added before the place closed two years earlier. There were cubicles underneath for bottles, shelves for glasses and steins, bins for ice. The bar was somehow neat and orderly when everything else in the place was the opposite. It was the heart of the pub, and as Harry trailed his fingers along the rail, he could feel it beating.

It was a perfect dump, and he loved it with his entire soul.

* * *

Three months after the renovations were complete, _The Hippogriff_ was well on its way to becoming a fixture in Godric's Hollow. People were in and out of the place throughout the day. Harry served a simple lunch for the working crowd during the week and always did a Sunday roast. The beer he served was local, the wine inexpensive but not bad, and the liquor on special after seven. There was always a crowd, though it never felt crowded. Cigarette smoke hung in the air with the conversation, and Harry moved through it all like a fish through water.

This was his place, and he, finally, felt like he belonged.

* * *

He'd owned _The Hippogriff_ for two years when Draco Malfoy first walked through its doors.

Harry was busy restocking glasses, wiping off the lingering condensation from his dishwasher, when the bell above the door chimed.

"Grab a seat wherever," he shouted, examining the glass for any specks or smudges before putting it down with the rest. "I'll be right over to get your order."

Harry finished with the glasses — there weren't many left — before turning around. His patron hadn't grabbed a seat as requested, but rather stood in the middle of the nearly empty barroom, hands in his pockets, his grey eyes somber and still on Harry.

Draco Malfoy.

Harry hated to admit it, but Malfoy looked good. His hair had grown out. It brushed the collar of his black turtleneck, which clung to a well-defined chest. He didn't bother to take off his brown leather jacket, and Harry watched its hem brush against Malfoy's thighs as he shifted his weight. His black jeans were tight enough that Harry could see him clench his hands.

"Potter."

Harry swung his bar rag over his shoulder. "Malfoy. What can I get for you?"

"I'm not here for a drink."

"Rather strange for you to be in a pub, then." Harry gestured to the stools lined up in front of the bar. "Have a seat. First drink's on the house."

It made the corner of Malfoy's mouth tick up, an involuntary smile that he tamped down quickly. "I'm just here to say my piece, then I'll be on my way."

"Much easier to speak freely when you've a drink in your hand." Harry pointedly met Malfoy's gaze and refused to look away. "Please. I insist."

He could see the moment Malfoy decided to do as he was told. The fight drained from his eyes, his expression turning to a soft, sad resignation that startled Harry with its depth. 

"I assume you think I'm here to gloat," Malfoy said as he pulled his stool closer to the bar. He reached into his jacket, then paused before withdrawing his hand. A moment later, he put it back in and took out a pack of Mayfairs. "Do you mind?"

Harry pulled an ashtray out from beneath the bar and set it in front of Malfoy. After the man pulled a cigarette from his pack, Harry flicked his fingers, then offered the blue flame pinched between his thumb and forefinger to Malfoy. Pale eyebrow raised, he leaned forward and lit his cigarette.

"Thank you," he said, his words clouded with smoke as Harry shook the flame away.

"What're you drinking?"

Malfoy gestured vaguely at the bottles arrayed along the back wall. "Whatever is fine. Whisky. Ogden's 18, if you have it. But well is fine."

Harry huffed out a laugh. "Right."

His clientele didn't regularly ask for the high end stuff, but Harry liked to keep it on hand for special occasions. So, while the glass was dusty, and it took Harry a minute to find it, he pulled out the bottle of Ogden's 18 and a tumbler and set them both on the bar.

"You take it neat, or on the rocks?"

"Neat for now." Malfoy took another drag on his cigarette and watched Harry pour him a drink. He exhaled as he said, "thank you."

Harry waited for the smoke to clear. "So, why are you here?"

Malfoy finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray before taking a healthy sip from his glass. Eyes closed, he sighed, then looked at Harry with something like fear.

Or maybe hope.

"I wanted to apologize."

It's not what Harry expected. "What?"

"I know it's been years, and things were a bit… complicated when we last spoke, but I've spent the past few years trying to come to terms with what I did when we were children. There are an awful lot of things I could say about that, though I don't believe it needs to be said. But for all of the harm I caused you, that my family caused you, I wanted to apologize. I know amends can't be made, but I wanted to at least say the words." He took another drink, then tapped his fingers on the bartop before pushing his seat back. "Thank you for the drink, Potter, and for listening."

"Sit down, Malfoy," Harry said, feeling annoyed and confused about why. "Finish your drink."

Malfoy, silent and uncertain, put his fingers around the glass, then waited, though Harry didn't know for what.

Leaving the man to his liquor, Harry finished getting the pub ready for the dinner rush. He rolled silverware, spoke with Robert — the middle-aged cook who worked the evening shift — and made sure the kegs were full. Through it all, Malfoy sipped quietly on his whisky and smoked.

Before the dinner rush started, Harry slid Malfoy a menu. "Food's pretty good, if you want to grab something to eat before you leave."

Malfoy ordered the shepherd's pie.

And another drink.

* * *

Malfoy's visits never had a pattern to them. Sometimes, he'd go weeks without dropping in. Other times, he would be there every day. He never had much to say, and Harry never much felt the need to pry. Running a pub had taught Harry to wait. If someone had something they needed to say, they'd get to it eventually.

Though Malfoy didn't ever say that much, Harry came to know the man. Unlike when they were children, Malfoy didn't seem to pay too much attention to his looks. His hair was usually well-styled, but there were times when it fell across his forehead in an untamed mass. He'd push it back, always with the hand he held his cigarette in, and Harry wondered on more than one occasion if Malfoy had ever accidentally lit his hair on fire that way. His clothes were plain but well-made. He seemed to favor leather jackets and long-sleeved shirts. Even in the heat of summer, he kept his arms covered. He'd lean them on the bartop, hold his forearms in his empty hands, and stare at the base of the mirror along the back wall. On days like those, Harry knew to keep the whisky coming and the ashtray emptied, and he let Malfoy speak whenever he found the words.

"It's hard to explain," Malfoy said one night, long after closing. 

Harry had pulled a stool up behind the bar and was leaning back against the rail, his beer resting by his elbow. Malfoy's hair was loose and falling in his face, and his cigarette left curls of smoke behind as he gestured around the pub.

"You did something with your life, and not just that whole hero thing. You _escaped_ the expectations waiting for you, and you've made… _this_. This place where you're just Harry, and not _Harry Potter_. Where people talk shite about your homemade crisps — they're rubbish, Potter, and you should really take them off the menu — and give you guff about your football team, and if anyone thinks 'Oh, isn't he that bloke that defeated the most evil wizard of our times?' they forget about it because you've got a beard now and you're carrying a dirty dishrag on your shoulder like a sash. And I just…" He grew quiet, his anxious gaze settling in the distance, running from Harry's. "I see it, and I'm jealous, and I hate that. I've spent my entire life being jealous of you, and I thought I'd moved past it."

"You're welcome to load the dishwasher if it'd help," Harry said, pleased when it startled a laugh from Malfoy. "Honestly, Malfoy, I don't think anyone cares about who you used to be as much as you."

He'd flinched at that, then downed his drink in one angry swallow. He didn't even bother to put out his cigarette, just left it burning in the ashtray as he grabbed his jacket, threw it over his shoulder, and left.

Harry watched the ember burn until it reached the filter and sputtered out.

* * *

It was a Thursday night. A football match on the telly had finished a half hour earlier, and the crowd had gone from rowdy to tired before slowly filtering out of the pub.

Harry trailed after them, smiling good-naturedly as they complained about the score and the refs and the players. Once the last one left, he closed the door and locked it with a sigh.

It'd been a long day. Ron and Hermione had owled that morning to say they wouldn't be able to make it for Sunday dinner, and one of Harry's freezers wasn't staying cold. The repairman couldn't come out for another day, and while Harry was able to keep his stores stable with freezing spells, it was exhausting to have them going all of the time and required him to sleep on the pull-out couch in the upstairs office. It had left his back aching all day, and paired with all of the time on his feet, he was bone-weary and ready for sleep.

It'd been six weeks since Malfoy last visited.

He hated that he was keeping count, and he hated that he couldn't stop himself. All he could do was replay those final words in his mind.

Why'd he say that? What in the world had possessed him to think that that level of honesty would be appreciated? It was ill-considered, ill-advised. If he could, he'd take them back, if it'd have Malfoy walking through the door of Harry's pub again.

He didn't know when it had happened, but he fucking missed Malfoy. More than he ever thought he'd miss the prat. It was almost in the same way that he missed Ron and Hermione. The intensity of it was the same, the overwhelming desire to see him. Only with his friends, there wasn't the low heat in Harry's blood, the overly sensitive awareness that had Harry looking up whenever someone smoked Mayfairs nearby or wore brown leather across broad shoulders. 

Damn it, he _wanted_ Malfoy, and he'd ballsed it all up before even realizing that he did.

He was nearly finished cleaning the barroom, with chairs sitting upside down on the tabletops, when a knock on the door startled him. Turning, he froze, a chair still in his hands, waiting to be set down.

Malfoy was at the door, his face twisted in a scowl. Banging on the glass again, his words were muffled as he yelled, "Open the bloody door, Potter!"

The chair clattered on the table top as Harry dropped it. He didn't even realize he'd cast an unlocking charm without his wand or a word until Malfoy twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. Closing it behind himself, he leaned against the windowed door, then reached back to redo the lock.

"You," he snarled, "had better listen because I will not repeat myself."

He stalked forward, his hair falling over his forehead, his leather coat billowing behind him. A perfect picture of masculine beauty and furor, Malfoy stopped, toe-to-toe, in front of Harry.

"You think you know what I feel, Potter. You think you understand what's going on in my head, the things I don't say. You look at me like you look at any of your other patrons, and you think, 'ah, Malfoy. I understand. I know what he's about.'" He pointed his finger at Harry, his hand shaking with anger. "But you don't. You _don't_. I come to this stupid, low-brow pub, and I watch you work, and I keep thinking that you'll get it, that one day, it'll all click in that brain of yours, and it never bloody does. And I'm tired of it. I'm tired of coming here and, like an idiot, hoping. So unless you've finally managed to pull your head out of your arse, this is it."

"Malfoy," Harry said slowly. "Let me get you a drink."

Malfoy threw his hands up, his laughter edging towards hysterical. "'A drink,' he says. Bloody brilliant. I don't need a drink, Potter." He sighed and the sound was filled with rain clouds. "I need to go."

"No, wait."

Harry's grip on Malfoy's wrist wasn't tight. It wasn't biting or rough. It was delicate, like someone picking the first flower of spring. A gentle touch, just enough to contain, to enfold.

" _Draco_. Let me buy you a drink."

Draco stared at Harry's hand, then flicked his gaze up to stare into Harry's eyes instead.

"To hell with the sodding drink," he said, already closing the distance between the two of them.

Whatever words followed, Harry didn't hear them. He was too lost in the feel of Draco's mouth on his, the too-forceful press of desperate lips and grasping hands. He fell into it as easily as taking the next step down a staircase, as easily as giving into gravity. His hands were under Draco's coat, wrapped around his back to draw him closer to Harry's body. Draco's shirt bunched in Harry's fists, and though he knew it must be uncomfortable, that having Harry's hands wrapped up in Draco's clothes must be less than pleasant, Harry refused to let go.

Draco groaned and pressed himself closer to Harry. Hands cupping Harry's jaw, Draco tilted Harry's head just so, slotting their mouths together more firmly before nibbling at Harry's bottom lip. Gasping, Harry didn't have time to think before Draco's tongue caressed the ache. He opened wider, let Draco kiss him deeply. It was filled with a desire that felt like a revelation, like finding magic for the first time.

Harry panted Draco's name into his mouth, then shoved the jacket from Draco's shoulders. It fell to the ground, but Harry was already focused on Draco's shirt and getting it off.

Laughing, Draco returned the favor. He threw Harry's bar cloth away carelessly, then placed his hands at the collar of Harry's flannel shirt, raised his eyebrow, and _pulled_. The buttons ripped free, scattering across the polished wood floor.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" Harry asked, staring down in stunned amusement as the front of his shirt gaped open to reveal his white vest beneath. 

"Just something I've always wanted to do," Draco said as he shoved Harry's ruined shirt down his arms. "Get naked."

"Not in my pub," Harry said, laughing. He didn't stop undressing, though. "There's a flat upstairs."

They stumbled their way to it. Harry kept pulling at Draco's belt, and Draco kept trying to get Harry's vest over his head, and neither of them succeeded in doing much of anything other than falling all over each other. 

The pull-out couch was still open from the morning, and though its mattress was thin and the springs dug into Harry's back, he didn't feel anything other than searing pleasure as Draco threw Harry down, settled over his thighs, and then grabbed Harry's prick through his jeans.

"I've no idea what I'm doing." Draco's hands told another story. They eased Harry's fly open, dragged the gaping fabric wide enough for Harry's cock to fall out, then grabbed it with a firm, confident grip. "I've never…"

Though it nearly killed him, Harry gritted out, "It's okay. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can go slow."

"Not on your life," Draco said before kissing Harry silent. 

His hand worked over Harry's cock with firm, teasing strokes. That competent touch only faltered a little when Draco pulled away to take his own prick out, and when it came back, it had the added pressure, the added pleasure of Draco's length against Harry's own.

They rutted against each other like that until Harry's blood boiled. He thought he was going to erupt with it, lost entirely to the heat of Draco's mouth, the heat of his body, the heat of his grip. It was too much and not enough all at once, and Harry's hands reached for Draco as if he were solid ground. Harry was drowning. He was inflamed.

He was coming.

"That's right," Draco said, his rhythm faltering. "That's right, come all over me, Harry. Show me how much you want me."

Cursing, Harry shook and shivered. His stomach was wet and sticky with come, and he kept his eyes on Draco's before trailing his fingers through his own mess and bringing them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, and Draco looked like the breath had been punched out of him as he came.

Bent over, head resting in Harry's shoulder, he panted against Harry's neck. Feeling more uncertain now than he had when Draco arrived at his door, Harry settled his hand on the nape of Draco's neck. The long strands of Draco's hair tickled Harry's knuckles, and almost wonderingly, Harry turned his palm up so he could rake his fingers through Draco's locks. 

They stayed that way for a long time, Harry petting Draco's hair, Draco breathing against Harry's pulse point.

"This is nice," Draco finally said, his voice rough and sleepy, "but I need a cigarette, and they're downstairs."

"You're a wizard, Draco," Harry said with a laugh before summoning the pack from downstairs. 

He offered them to Draco, then watched as he went through the familiar motions of pulling the cigarette from the pack and sliding it between his lips.

"I'm going to need your help with this part," Draco said, the cigarette bouncing between his lips.

Harry snapped his fingers, and Draco leaned forward into the flame between Harry's forefinger and thumb. As the tobacco lit, Harry watched with wonder as Draco's eyes slid shut, crinkling at the edges with his smile.

Draco tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and breathed out a slow wreath of smoke. Almost without thought, Harry put his hand on the side of Draco's throat. He could feel the trailing end of Draco's exhalation, and when he placed his thumb on Draco's Adam's apple, he felt him swallow after.

"Why'd you start?" Harry asked quietly. "Smoking?"

"I'd burned down everything else in my life that mattered." Draco held the cigarette out to Harry, placed it in the part of his lips. "I figured why not me as well?"

Harry inhaled, tasting tobacco and Draco's mouth, and let the smoke settle in his lungs. Let it burn him for just a moment before he let it go.

"You'd quit," Harry said. "If I asked you to."

"Perhaps."

Harry took the cigarette from between Draco's outstretched fingers and extinguished it with a quickly cast spell. He Vanished the butt, then put his empty hand on the center of Draco's chest. His heartbeat felt the same as when Harry put his hand on the bar rail for the first time.

"I'm asking," he said. "I think, maybe, it's time we stop playing with fire."

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Zigster. I hope you like it! 😘


End file.
